R. Morris - A Razor Wrapped in Silk

‘But Father Anfim,’ objected Maria, ‘do you see the icon?’ She pointed to the corner from where the icon of the Virgin Mother looked down.

‘Yes,’ admitted the priest.

‘And do you see the portrait of his Imperial Majesty? And the map of Russian territories?’

The priest had to agree that these images were also in place.

‘Well then.’

‘But he says he will take them down!’ spluttered Father Anfim.

‘Did you, Apollon Mikhailovich?’ It seemed to Virginsky that the tone she adopted was the one she would use with a naughty schoolboy.

‘No!’ denied Perkhotin emphatically. ‘The subtleties of my position have been lost on the reverend father.’

An explosion of bluster escaped from the priest’s mouth.

‘Then what did you say?’ asked Maria calmly.

‘I said that there would come a day, before too long, possibly within our lifetime, certainly within the lifetime of the children we teach, when such symbols will not only be taken down, but also will be destroyed.’

‘Is that what you are teaching?’ screeched Father Anfim. ‘It is revolution!’

‘Nonsense. In the first place, I do not teach it. The inevitable cannot be taught. One may as well attempt to teach the tide to come in. Whether one likes it or not, these things will happen. And to observe as much implies neither approval nor its opposite. It is morally neutral.’

‘There!’ cried Father Anfim triumphantly. ‘Condemned by his own words … Morally neutral! It is not your place to be morally neutral, sir. It is your place to teach loyalty to the Tsar … and devotion to God, while you’re at it.’

‘But what about the principles of science?’

‘The principles of the One True Church. That is your priority. You are producing the Tsar’s future subjects. It is your duty to impose most emphatically upon them …’

‘To impose what, father?’

‘A sense of their place in his empire whilst assuring them of his fatherly love for them.’

‘Is it a father’s love that condemns them to a life of hellish drudgery and back-breaking toil out there?’ Perkhotin waved sweepingly at the casement window. The lights of the surrounding factories glowed dimly through the smog.

‘A father’s love may at times appear distant … his visage stern. But if those children place their trust in him … they will find … he will not let them down! Indeed, he is their best hope for protection. Was it not this tsar who lifted the yoke of serfdom? Even you must admit that! Well, now, he applies the same zeal … the same loving diligence … to, to, to …’

‘To what?’

‘To the question of factory regulations.’

‘Another commission that will come to nothing, its findings hidden away in some dusty departmental cupboard.’

‘The Tsar will consider its findings carefully, as he always does.’

‘Before giving his order: Bury it! As he always does.’

‘Please, gentlemen,’ broke in Maria Petrovna desperately. ‘This is fruitless. Father Anfim, you have my assurance that I will never consent to the removal of the icon.’ She spoke at a racing lick, her fluency inspired by necessity. ‘The same goes for the portrait of the Tsar and the map. Not only that, I can assure you that Apollon Mikhailovich agrees wholeheartedly with me on this. Is that not so, Apollon Mikhailovich? Is that not so, Apollon Mikh-? ’ The final, repeated question fell away into tears.

‘Maria Petrovna! Whatever is the matter?’ Perkhotin took her hands in his. ‘If I have caused you any distress by my ill-judged remarks …’

‘My dear lady!’ cried Father Anfim, who appeared almost panic-stricken as he pressed in on her. The priest and the teacher jostled to assert their solicitude. ‘Do not upset yourself. I … I … Given your assurances regarding this individual … I accept unreservedly.’

‘Thank you, my friends.’ Maria Petrovna pulled her hands free from Perkhotin’s. ‘I must ask you to forgive my outburst. I assure you, it has nothing to do with either of you. It is simply that I must go with these gentlemen. They are magistrates. They have something they want me to look at.’

‘What’s this?’ Something sharper than concern, a look almost of cunning, pinched Perkhotin’s features as he considered Porfiry and Virginsky.

‘It’s to do with the children. The ones who went missing. There is the question of identification.’

‘I see.’ The words rasped at Perkhotin’s throat.

‘Oh my dear, how terrible for you. May God give you strength.’

Virginsky felt impelled to speak up. ‘Of course, there may be a way to spare Maria Petrovna from this ordeal. If either of you gentlemen would be willing to make the identification in her place? That is to say, if the children were known to you.’

‘They were my pupils,’ insisted Maria. A desolate calmness had entered her voice. Her eyes were fixed on a distant point.

‘It’s the boy, isn’t it?’ began Perkhotin hesitantly. ‘Mitka? I know him. I could identify him, I believe.’

‘There are other children missing too, whom I do not think you know.’

‘I would know their faces, Maria Petrovna.’

‘No!’ The force of her objection shocked them all. ‘I mean to say, yes, you would know their faces, I’m sure. But I cannot ask you to do this. No one knows these children as I do. No one else can do this for me.’

‘But there is something you should be aware of,’ said Virginsky, with a desperate look to Porfiry.

Porfiry shook his head warningly.

‘What? What is it?’ Her words came constricted by fear.

Virginsky fixed his gaze on Porfiry. ‘We told you that the bodies were received by the Medical-Surgical Academy, for the purposes of teaching. The students have been at work on them.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The heads have been removed.’

The sound was something more than a groan. It was the throbbing churn of her living flesh.

‘I’m sorry,’ continued Virginsky. ‘There was nothing we could do about it. It was part of their studies. It is important, however, that you are prepared for what is to come. To expose you to this without warning would be cruel.’ He cast a significant glance towards Porfiry Petrovich.

‘I will not permit you to subject yourself to this,’ said Perkhotin grimly. Then, as if he sensed her inevitable intransigence, he added: ‘Or at least allow me to accompany you.’

‘No.’ This time, she uttered the word of rejection softly, and Virginsky marvelled at how quickly she had regained her composure. ‘Though I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your offer. You must stay here for the children. And for me. I need you to take my class.’

‘Then I will come with you,’ said Father Anfim, drawing himself up to his full height.

Maria Petrovna rewarded this quixotic offer with a smile of unbounded gratitude. ‘It will not be necessary, dear, kind Father Anfim. I will have these gentlemen with me. As well as being magistrates, they are also my friends, or so I consider them. I hope I am not wrong to do so.’

Absurdly, Virginsky felt himself blush, though whether it was out of pleasure at the favour shown him, or resentment at being grouped together with Porfiry Petrovich, he could not say.

‘It is as well your colleague came when he did. I was about to set the students the task of removing the facial epidermises.’

The professor, whose name, it turned out, was Bubnov, led the way by candlelight through the dark corridors of the basement, which like every basement in St Petersburg was permeated with the cloying smell of damp rot. His remark, intended for Porfiry Petrovich, was made a little too volubly. It drew a gasp from the darkness behind Virginsky. He turned and waited. Maria Petrovna’s face appeared, wraithlike. She seemed hardly there, the flickering intimation of a presence in the shifting darkness. Virginsky reached out a hand to console her, but lost faith in the gesture before it was completed.